Monday, 30 April 2012

Personally, not great. Actually, let me clarify that. Personally, as an
individual person, I’m doing fine. Also, the kids are fine, the wife’s fine, work’s
fine, and on and on within my little ecosphere. In fact, our eldest, Roberto, started an after-school “football
club” today. Football has always been a major part of my life: I’m not too
fussed as to whether it will be for my boys (no, seriously) but I do hope that
they will pick up some of the most salubrious values associated with it and
other team sports. It would also help if they understood some of the game’s
principles, if only so that they are not
asking me whether Sheffield United are winning when we’re watching them on Sky
and they’re two-nil down at home to Stevenage in a must-win game. That was just
Roberto, to be fair: Daniel wasn’t saying anything. Sometimes there’s something
to be said about the fact that he’s a bit behind with his speech.

So yes, as an individual I am fine. As part of a broader community, less so.
Community, as defined by dictionary.com, is "asocial,religious,occupational,orothergroupsharingcommoncharacteristicsorinterestsandperceivedorperceivingitselfasdistinctinsomerespectfromthelargersocietywithinwhichitexists(usuallyprecededbythe ): the business community; the community of scholars”. We all belong to a variety of communities. In this case, I am looking at the community of “Unitedites”, “Blades”, call us what you will, to which I belong. Some of you will turn
up your noses at the concept of football supporters representing a community:
and that is fine, if unfortunate for you. You have obviously never enjoyed shared
elation or disappointment in the stands or engaged in conversation with a
perfect stranger in the original social network, a beer-stained pub, or any of
their modern would-be counterparts. You have never hugged a complete stranger
as the net bulged or gasped in unison as Dave Seaman pulled off the “best save of all time”
(not my words – well, not only mine!)
as you stood in line with the very goal-line along which he dived (before
Jagielka tried to see if he could kick a ball all the way to the moon)…

OK, that one may be a bit too specific. But you know what I mean. Or not, as
the case may be. And, if you don’t, that’s fair enough: there’s nowt as queer
as folk and I’m sure you enjoy something which I don’t ‘get’. Just trust me (and thousands of others): Unitedites / Blades are a community. With sub-communities, dependent on
preferred refreshment establishment or social network (e.g. #twitterblades!). How else do you explain the instantaneous
connection between people who have never met before yet who share such vast common
ground that even some of the closest friendships cannot boast? And it
is as part of the community of Sheffield United fans that I am not doing great… For the uninitiated, Saturday started with the Blades a single point ahead of local rivals Wednesday
(yes, it is a daft name) in the race for the second automatic promotion spot out
of League One (the third level, as the name does not suggest) behind Charlton.
With only one round of fixtures to follow, two wins would seal promotion. We could even have secured it on Saturday if Wednesday
failed to win earlier in the day. As it happens, they played at the standard kick-off time of 3pm and won 2-1 at Brentford (in the
press’ unbiased opinion, somewhat undeservingly) to overtake us ahead of our 17:20 (Sky Sports time) start. At two-nil
down against Stevenage, things were not going to plan at the Lane (Bramall, of
course). A 2-2, after a spirited fightback (not devoid of some technique, either), they were slowly but surely… well, slowly looking up. But
the last grain of salt in the hourglass slid through the gap before we could score
a third, and our control over the promotion race, our self-determination over our status, with it. Win the last game of
the season at Exeter and if Wednesday fail to win, job’s still a good’un; and, taking
into account goal difference, a draw would suffice if Wycombe Wanderers were to
win at Hillsborough (a.k.a. The Sty). Trouble is, Wycombe were relegated last
Saturday and the odds of them taking anything from S6 (a.k.a. The Sty) are somewhat
remote. In fact, forget ‘somewhat’, they are just remote. We may well win at Exeter (who were also relegated on Saturday) and
there will be plenty of Blades there to lend their support, including my good self. However, experts of
varying degrees of knowingwhattheyaretalkingaboutdom would suggest that both
Sheffield teams are likely to win (indeed, them more so than us), thereby leaving the Blades lying third, a
single point behind their esteemed rivals, and therefore heading for the
playoffs rather than The Championship.

So this looks like another “oh so nearly” moment in the history of Sheffield United F.C., the club that could have signed Maradona in the 70s but for the
fact that £200,000 sounded a bit steep for an unproven kid from Argentina… the
club to which Alex Ferguson agreed to move before returning to Aberdeen and
changing his mind* (he would then move to a club called Manchester United, you
might have heard of them)… the club whose play-off final history is littered
with 50-yard screamers into the top corner but always from the (winning) opposition
side (20, 50… what’s a few yards?)… And yes, we may well emerge victorious and
promoted from Saturday’s fixtures. Indeed, we must believe! Till the bitter/sweet end, till the last drops of sweat and blood have hit the ground, we must believe. Regardless of Saturday, we may of course still rise to the purgatory of the
Championship via the play-offs. But, right now, we’re all a bit deflated.
Something was in our control and we let it slip. Yes, “we”: players, club, supporters, we are
one, “we are United”. Now we’re relying on someone
else messing up as well as on our own players getting their part of the job
done. And lack of control is never a comfortable situation to be in. We can but
enjoy the camaraderie and prepare to share once more in either elation or
disappointment. Don’t knock this: these are some of the values I hope Roberto
will learn from team sports.

From a personal training perspective (I can’t stand running, but this
blog has some connection with it), I am also in a phase where I need to
make sure I stay in control and maintain momentum. Haven’t run for a few days
now, although I did row for 30’ last night – my first session on the old (and squeaky)
rowing machine since pre-surgery. I feel fine but also know that I need to get
out running and maintain that momentum, that discipline before it becomes all
the harder to reverse back into it. Fortunately there is no reason whatsoever
why I shouldn’t get out there tonight once Karen gets in from Guides (she’s a
leader, before you call the Police) around 21:15. Well, apart from the heavy
rain forecast around that time. And the fact that the second half of the Premier League title-deciding
(potentially) Manchester derby will be kicking off around that point. So yes,
what could ever possibly stand between me and a 30’ session tonight?One final thought, one that has been
on my mind for some time. You could argue that I don’t deserve to go to Exeter,
because I am not a regular at Bramall Lane or indeed on the many away day coaches
that have clocked up thousands of miles across England’s finest roads. Trust
me, I do feel some guilt. But, well before the fixtures were announced, I had my
eyes on two away matches: Yeovil and Exeter. Living where I do and not being
able to drive (and that’s before you throw two young kids into the equation),
these were the two I could realistically make. Bristol (Rovers) and Swindon
would have been easier, but both those teams unhelpfully saw fit to get themselves relegated out
of this division last season at the same time as we saw fit to enter it. Anyway, I couldn’t make
Yeovil due to a calendar clash (i.e., Karen probably had something on), so it was all
about Exeter. It so happens that it’s the final match of the season and, for
some time, has been likely to decide our fate. But I would have sought to go
regardless: so please don’t blame me, fellow Blades, rather the computer for
scheduling it as it did. You probably do deserve a chance to go more than I do
and I openly admit so. That said, if you want to go but haven’t got a ticket
(or two), send me a direct message on Twitter. You never know, I may be able to
help (and still go myself).

That’s it for me today… I’ll
shut up now, and move on to establishing whether I would really lose that much
momentum if I put off my run till tomorrow. I have a niggly feeling I know
which way this one’s going to go. In the meantime, thanks to all the Twitterblades with whom I, for one, share in elation and despair. Even if I’ve never even met you. Not knowingly, anyroad.

* I don't have a link to corroborate this story. But Tony Pritchett told me once (yes, personally) and I believe him. p.s.: I was born (in fact, conceived) a Blade and
I enjoy writing… by syllogism (of sorts, anyway), I will write about the Blades in this
blog. But this is NOT a blog about Unite. Two reasons, principally: a) being in
exile and only getting to a handful of games a season, I am not qualified to
write one; b) why write my own blog when I can read “A United View”?

Friday, 27 April 2012

Where were we… ah yes, “why Sheffield and then what
happened “last time"."

I won’t start with “why Sheffield”. There’s time for
that: there always will be. And I need to get it right, if only for my sake. So… “what happened last
time”…

You probably didn’t expect there to have been a “last
time”, or indeed a “first time”. Truth be told, there wasn’t meant to be. Never was. It
was just one of those silly things you do when you’re on holiday and then live
to regret for the rest of your life. Which, incidentally, is hopefully not the
category in which my Mum files meeting my Dad when holidaying in the town in
which I eventually grew up).

Salcombe, 1989. I know it’s 1989 because our Joe wasn’t
even one at the time. That much I knew at the time: where Salcombe was, I had no clue. But
Auntie Dawn, Uncle Richard and their three kids, Natalie, Gabrielle and the
aforementioned Joseph were heading there on holiday and someone (probably my
grandparents) had obviously suggested it might be nice for me to join them.The Woods were renting a house there for the week – near the seaside! I was told Salcombe
was Darn Saath, on the left and all the way at the bottom, “South Devon” being the
technical term. I live in North Somerset now, so Salcombe isn’t the million
miles away (approx.) it was in 1989. But it might as well be: Devon and
Cornwall are always a million miles away. Or at least thus it feels.

Now… “the seaside”… there alone lies a term worthy of
definition.

I grew up in Santa Margherita Ligure,
Italy, some 20m (or 32k, to be precise) east of Genoa. It lies on the
Mediterranean coast, its population of 12,000 (as I learnt at school circa
1983) almost doubling in the summer when the wealthy Milanese travel down to
their second homes. This happens typically around August 15, the
day Italy officially shuts down till the schools reopen a month later: it is
all quite efficient, especially by Italian standards. Anyway, it was in “Santa”
that I had developed my concept of seaside: small and crowded beaches, little
wind, ‘calcetto’ (=foosball)
and a very calm and mild sea. Tides? Y’what? What’s one of them?

Salcombe wasn’t like Santa. The beaches were busy, but
you always had space. It was windy. The sea wasn’t particularly mild nor calm.
And it had tides…

… if you’ve ever been to the Med, you’ll agree that
there really isn’t much in terms of tides. It’s not even a proper sea: it’s
just an overgrown lake. So when, on our first day at the beach, Richard said it
was time to move back, I thought he was joking. The sea was about a hundred
yards away! How was it ever going to get closer?

Generally speaking, I do as I’m told. This was no
exception. And, sure enough, just as well: the tide did come in, erasing all
the cricket creases and all the goal-lines. Wow… welcome to proper sea!

Why am I telling you all this? No idea… oh yes,
Salcombe. There were activities in Salcombe throughout that week. I only
remember two of them, the other one being children sitting on a log over the
sea and trying to push each other over. Natalie, then aged 5 ½, sat motionless
for ages whilst another kid (around 15) franctically waved his arms around, before sending
him falling into the cold evening sea without even touching him – all she did
was point a finger at him. Still waiting on a stewards’ enquiry over eight
thousand days later… but that was nothing like the injustice I suffered at my
own hands (and feet) a few days later.

A 5k race. Salcombe was holding a 5k race. And Uncle
Richard and Auntie Dawn (who, by the way, are 15 years older than me, which I’m
sure is statistically less than most Aunts and Uncles – well, back in 1989,
anyway) thought it would be a good idea if I entered. To this day I don’t know
if it was my lack of any fitness whatsoever (throughout my childhood I never
came across a kid less fit than I was), the lack of any training whatsoever or just
the fact that I CAN’T STAND RUNNING that inspired them. I may have made some
comment about my love for Springsteen (which had blossomed the previous winter
following my first televisual encounter on October 15, 1988)
and ‘Born To Run’: indeed, somewhere or other there should still be a video in
which Richard films me before the ‘race’ saying “We should have it on in the
background, shouldn’t we? ‘Born To Run’…”. But there’s a distinct difference
between liking ‘Born To Run’ and liking just the ‘To Run’ bit.

5k… if you’re expecting a breath-by-breath account, you’ll
be sorely disappointed. There was very little running and a lot of walking, for
starters. In that, I was not alone. I held on to second plac… sorry, second
from bottom for virtually all the race, keeping a young girl at safe distance
and feeling quite happy with my unfit self. There I was, a hundred yards from
the finish line, from the end of a scarring experience, when…

… when the organisers’ car passed me. With the girl in
the back seat. Twenty yards from the end, out she jumped and ran enthusiastically
to the finish. And Dorando
Pietri thought he had it bad in London 1908 just because he was stripped of
gold for a teeny weeny little help crossing the line!

Gutted. I was hopeless, but I was fair. I was cheated
out of second-from-bottom by this sad excuse of a 12-year old (random guess).
She jumped out of the car and still had the audacity to celebrate as if she’d
won Olympic gold. Zola Budd had
nothing on this lass, let me tell you. It hurt almost as much as Auntie Dawn
berating me some 48 hours for using too much milk on my cereals and forcing
someone (Richard and me, as it happens – not her) to go and buy another pint.
Not that I hold onto these things, you understand. Oh no, not me.

As I said, Salcombe was 1989. As I type, it’s 2012. It’s
been 23 long years since that 5k and only now am I finding some energy and/or desperation
to give it another go. Still, at least I’m contemplating running this time. Darn
it mind, twice as far – I’ve not thought this one through properly, have I?

Oh, and about the 23 September reference
in an earlier post… it’s Springsteen’s birthday, that’s all. Just sounds cooler
than a day with no reference whatsoever. September 23, 1949,
Monmouth Medical Center, N.J.. Not that I’m a sad git when it comes to
Springsteen facts and trivia, you no doubt again understand.

You’re going to have to understand a lot of things over
the next few months. In fact, if you do figure out how my memory works and why it remembers certain things from 1976 (I was born in 1975) but not things from yesterday, do let me know. By the way, since my last post I’ve been running three
times. So the momentum’s still there: my real fear is losing it if I stop for
more than a day. Which I will do, if only because of work commitments: when I
was filling in my planning spreadsheet I wrote of virtually all of the third week
in May, which starts with an all-day meeting in our office on the Monday which
will continue on the Tuesday until I travel to Switzerland for a meeting on the
Wednesday and Thursday. Now, one of the advantages of running over other sports
is its ‘portability’: have shoes, will practice. Some of my colleagues take
their trainers everywhere for that very reason: running is their sole
alternative to working or drinking. But, since the Wednesday evening will be
spent socialising with our clients, romantic as the thought of running in
Switzerland sounds it ain’t going to happen. Ah well – folk reckon you can
train for a 10k in eight weeks, and at the end of that week Springsteen’s birthday
will still be 126 days / eighteen weeks away (it says so on my spreadsheet*)…

As
Lord Cocker (II) of Sheffield says: “Do you remember the first
time? I can’t remember a worse time”. Quite.Oh, as for what I remember from 1976 – don’t get
excited, I just recall being in the pram and looking at the front-left wheel as
my Mum pushed me down Via XXV (or 25, if that’s easier) Aprile near our apartment. Extremely
unspectacular, but all my life I’ve maintained I visually remember it. Now,
since I was only born in December 1975, you can see why some people (including
Auntie Dawn and Uncle Richard, I should add) have often questioned the accuracy
of this recollection. But, even if it were a trick of the mind (which it isn’t,
believe me), I’ve been saying it for so long that that alone is remarkable. Now…
who got fired on “The Apprentice” we watched last night (off the Sky+ - I
know it’s on on Wednesdays!)? Oh, and to be 100% clear – that week in Salcombe was cracking.* no, I don't keep a spreadsheet for Springsteen’s birthday – it’s my training spreadsheet, comic!

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

And I’m ready. I’m almost willing, certainly as willing
as I’ll ever be. Have I mentioned that I can’t stand running? Well, I can’t. However,
the process of buying the shoes (and exchanging tweets about it with a couple
of people who have a lot to answer for in this process… identities will be revealed in due course!) ignited as much motivation as conceivably possible. If I fail to
capitalise on this now, it’s only going to get tougher.

It’s raining outside, but if that becomes an obstacle I
need to rethink my strategy, buy some Lottery tickets and invest in a
treadmill. As it happens I’m a Sheffielder, so rain’s no obstacle (in fact, whatever could be? happiness, maybe, but that's about it). So I got
ready and, at 19:40, emailed a colleague who gives me lifts into work, who ran the 2011 London Marathon on very little training and
whom I’d informed about my newfound ambition:

All that was true, by the way. By the time the e-mail
had gone and I stepped outside, a rainbow was arching in the distance. I
couldn’t hear any angels singing, but maybe I was just being a bit premature
and that would change after the run.

‘Run’ – let me qualify that. Having undertaken
extensive research (i.e. done some googling and taken in what people I’ve never
met nor ever will do have to say), I drew up a neat little plan. I’m alright with
spreadsheets, me. Anyway, all these folk reckon that you should not start
running by running. This appeals to me immensely, as you might have anticipated.
No, one should walk first: and, for a while, walk for a minute, then run for a
minute, then… that’s right, you’ve got it. OK – so not being able to run to the
nearest postbox is no longer a short-term problem… that’s good.

I’ve not told you what my ambition is yet, have I? To
run a marathon.

Yeah, right! Is it heck. C’mon, you didn’t fall for that, did you?
If you did, please e-mail me your bank details and I will put you in contact with a Nigerian oil magnate for the investment that will change your life forever. No, I’m just trying to do a 10k here. I say ‘just’… obviously that would be a
monumental achievement for me. That’s 25 laps of a running track, that is. And that is my goal. Every
step I take, every breath I take, is geared towards running ‘a’ 10k.

Just any old 10k? Well, ideally not. Before I’d even
bought the shoes, I’d spotted the race: The Sheffield
TenTenTen, which takes place on
September 23. If you know me, you may understand my connection
with one of those two snippets of information. Both may click, but that’s less likely. But
don’t worry, I’ll spell them out for you in the weeks that come. You don’t think I'm just going to rabbit on about running on here, right? I’m going to put some effort into making it vaguely interesting!

And yes, I did go on that run. One minute walking, one
minute running, ten times. Twenty minutes, all in. And all duly entered into The Spreadsheet. I actually made it to the local and
back. Fifteen minutes were enjoyable, the last five less so. But that was good:
I didn’t want it to be enjoyable. Well, not ‘easy’, anyway. This was as hard as I wanted it to be to motivate me. And no, I didn’t hear any angels singing at the end.

By the way, “The Local” is itself an exotic location… it’s a bit
like The Grapes, home of the magnificent if under-exposed “Early Doors”, only you feel
you’re going further back in time. There’ll be time aplenty for me to introduce
you to “The Ship”, don’t worry. Or will there? Having run there last Thursday,
I needed to consider whether that was reason to return there on foot for some
liquid refreshment or indeed to stay away from it and not waste the good
effort. The fact that around 9pm I tweeted “#soditimoff #nocommitmentSquintani”
should give you an idea as to which school of thought prevailed. And that’s even though there’s no Lucozade at The Ship… and no, other energy drinks are NOT available either!

On Wednesday, April 18, I had just spent a whole working day in a large
conference room in the centre of Bristol listening to luminaries on the subject
of logistics and IT in the Defence sector. For my sins, they were very good and
that area is highly relevant to my work – but this is not about my work. I
write enough about that as it is. All you need to know is that, after some
seven hours in there, I had a journey to make. Or at least begin.

The physical journey went from Central Bristol to
Whiteladies Road – number 49, to be precise. Fortunately there is never a shortage of buses heading that way, as my left foot (the 8 ½ in this story) was starting to ache - not a good omen…This is the address of MOTI, a running equipment store I’d
found online the previous night. Their helpful staff get you on the treadmill and film you to
ensure you buy shoes that are right for you, comparing your efforts on a shoe-by-shoe basis. In my line of work we call that
the “trusted advisor sale”, a highly successful technique. But this is not
about my work.

see, I'm not making all this up

So, having slipped out of my suit and into a 30-year
old (approx.) Blades t-shirt and some cheap shorts, the tests began. As I stepped onto the treadmill, Journey's ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ started playing on the radio - yes, of course, the compulsory in-store Radio 2. Was that a message from Simon Mayo? Hmmm…doubt it.Asics,
Nike, New Balance, Adidas… all good stuff. Hard to provide detailed responses
to the “How was that different?” interrogations by Maria (whose name I only
know because it’s on the receipt) (yes, I ended up buying). To me they all felt
good, subtle differences being lost on my untrained feet, though the Asics did
feel a bit better. No surprise, then, that they were the most expensive, coming
in at £100. That’s £50 a foot, or £10 a toe. Still harbouring memories of my
parents splashing out on a decent keyboard (the instrument) only for my initial
enthusiasm to wane when I realised I wasn’t gifted with natural ability but had
to put in some effort, I politely enquired as to the existence of cheaper
alternatives… something more in the £5/toe range…

…lo and behold, there was! Another pair of Asics. Not
as good as the £10/toe ones, obviously, but the monitored jog on the treadmill
did not reveal any major problems. So I duly went for a pair of Asics
Blackhawk 5 blue and white shoes. I know, blue and white… look, I did ask
if they had any other colours and they didn’t. So I set out to console myself
with the thought of pounding blue and white on our dirty British streets for
months to come.

Sneaky, conniving, tight-fisted creature that I am, I
told Maria my budget was £50 when it actually £65. That enabled me to invest a
further £10 in comfy running socks and even £2.99 on one of those O-shaped
plastic tubes also known as “running water bottles”. So yes, I did break my
budget by all of 99p. Still, they were throwing into the bargain a free (and
red!) Nike
shirt, so on the whole I did alright. Yes, I did look up those shoes on the
Web the following day and yes, I could have saved myself about twenty quid. But,
whilst I may not have needed all the video replays I got, I did need some
indication as to what I should buy. As much as anything, it was useful to get
my feet measured: apparently one foot is a 8 ½ and the other is a 9. When you think
that I’ve been buying size 10s for years, I can but assume that something got
lost in shoe-size translation when I stopped buying 43s.

Anyway, that was it – no going back now. Going home, yes, one shopping bag heavier and £65.99 lighter. But the point of no return had truly been passed (well, I can take the shoes back within 30 days, but that hardly makes for a dramatic ending, does it?). Can you guess what happened next? Come back soon to check!

About Me

Made in Sheffield, exported worldwide. Grew up near Genoa, Italy; returned to Sheffield for Uni (with some time in Nice thrown in for good measure) before falling South and then stumbling West to London, Slough and now North Somerset. Any further West and I'm going to get awfully wet. The 176m separating me from Sheffield generally shrink when I'm online.